


Demons, A History

by thievinghippo



Series: Bethroot Cadash [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-11 08:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3321470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re always lurking. A prickle in the back of his mind or an undefined shadow. Thom Rainier’s fought demons his whole life. And it’s harder than ever to fight them once he meets the Herald. A study on Blackwall, Haven, and testing resolve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. Hunger

**I. Hunger**

“And what’d you have to do for this?”

Thomas’s mother didn’t even look up from the basin as she asked the question, her knuckles scraping against the washing board. She was a known hustler in Markham, her hands never idle, always washing or mending or baking, anything that might earn the family some extra gold.

“Messer Jo-“

“Don’t say the name, you stupid boy, I don’t want to know,” his mother said quickly.

“Sorry, mum,” Thomas said, his voice quiet. He knew better than to say names. His mother taught him that years ago. He looked over at his sister, Liddy, playing by the fire and tried not to feel the sting of jealousy. _She_ never had to work for coin.

“Are you going to answer the question or not?” his mother asked, a hint of impatience in her words. This is how it went, week after week. She asked questions and Thomas did his best to answer.

“This,” Thomas said, pointing at a small copper piece, “is for bringing a package to a man at a tavern-“ 

“Did you ask any questions?”

“No, mum,” Thomas said at once. He pointed to the silver coin, his largest earning to date. “This was for keeping watch in the barn.”

His parents sent him to work at rich men’s farms as a stable boy and while his mother took his wages every week, Thomas had other ways to earn some coin. Not all the coin made its way into his mother’s pocket. He didn’t know what he saved for, not yet, but Thomas liked the idea of having money of his own.

“Keeping watch for who?” she asked.

“Don’t remember,” Thomas said, putting his hands in his pockets. His mother didn’t need to know that the son of the house, a tall man of twenty, went up to the loft laughing with another man.

His mother grabbed his chin and looked him, right in the eye, a satisfied look on her face, a look Thomas rarely saw. “You’re better than they are, Thomas,” she said softly. “Better than any nobility out there. You’ll earn your way to the top, like a man should, and not have it handed to you on a platter.”

“Yes, mum,” Thomas said, thinking of the other two copper pieces in his pocket, safe from his mother.

“Good lad,” she said, mussing his hair. “Now, remember, don’t tell your father about this. It’s our little secret.” Slowly, she slid the coins off the table and into her palm. “Now take your sister to market.”

Feeling like he had passed a test, Thomas walked over to his sister. “Come on, Liddy!”

“But I’m cold, Thomas.”

He sighed. She was always cold. “Then bring a shawl,” he said, picking hers off of the floor and wrapping it around her shoulders. They didn’t get to go to the market alone very often and he wanted to enjoy every moment.

They lived close to the market, but even the short walk winded his sister. “Anything you want, Liddy,” Thomas told her proudly, keeping her small hand in his to make sure she wouldn’t get lost.

But Liddy had simple tastes, usually asking for a ribbon for her hair or a feather to make a quill, even when he told her she could have more. She said she never wanted more.

This final time they made the trip, she asked for flowers.

#

“Room here at the fire, Warden,” a farmer calls out.

The afternoon air is chilly, even with Blackwall’s gambeson. A few minutes in front of a fire would do a world of good. He walks over to the farmer, who lords over a pot of stew, the spatula in his hand a specter. The man presses a full bowl into Blackwall’s hands. “Grey Wardens saved my brother in Denerim during the Blight. Happy to pay it back a little.”

Blackwall nods his thanks and sits down on a log circling the fire, dropping his pack carefully onto the ground. Wardens Brosca and Alistair, two names that earn him free drinks in most taverns and a good meal besides. It seems everywhere he goes in Ferelden, the Wardens were there ten years before, helping and making a difference. And people _remembered._

He hopes there are places, village or towns, that remember the name Blackwall as well. The Warden-Constable deserves it.

Taking out his wooden spoon from a pouch on his belt, he eats in silence, never wanting to give too much information about himself. Leaving the Hinterlands looks more and more like a good idea. Too much activity, with the Inquisition and its Herald poking around.

As a small crowd starts to gather, and yet another young man walks over to the fire for supper, Blackwall feels his muscles start to tense. He’s too exposed now and wants the familiarity of an open and more importantly _empty_ road beneath his feet, where it’s him alone with the company of his own thoughts and grief.

Perhaps Gwaren is the answer. He made the trip a few years ago, trading his wooden trinkets for salt he could use for trade anywhere in Ferelden. Maybe he’d even spend a day on the coast. He always did like the sea.

“Bloody bandits are back,” the young man grumbles. Around him, several men and women sighed as if the young man’s news was expected. “Charging a toll this time.”

“As if we didn’t have enough trouble with the hole in the sky,” an elderly woman says.

Blackwall looks west, towards the Breach. It can barely be seen from the Hinterlands, but it’s still there, waiting and watching. The rifts are more dangerous, in his mind. Anyone could stumble upon one, and without a way to close them? Bloody disaster.

“We have the Herald, though,” someone behind Blackwall says. “She’s helping out up at the Crossroads. Inquisition is there, too.”

“She was really there? I thought that was just a rumor,” the elderly woman says, warming her hands by the fire. “You know, I heard she didn’t have a stitch of clothes on her when she stepped out of the Fade. Naked as the day she was born.”

Blackwall’s heard a bit about this Herald. Some say she’s a duplicate of Andraste herself. One rumor has her galloping across Felerden on a horse with a golden mane. He knows better than to put stock in such rumors. At least the Herald and her Inquisition are trying to change things for the better, which is more than most people these days.

Across the way, he hears a high-pitched scream. Blackwall stands immediately, his heart beginning to race as he heads toward the scream, like the good Warden he considers himself to be.

“Demons,” he says, his voice coming out in a hiss. A Wraith circles aimlessly as farmers run the other way. Sliding his arm into his shield and unsheathing his sword, he takes stock of the situation.

He knows where there’s one, there will be more. These people are farmers. If they aren’t able to deal with some troublesome bandits, they certainly wouldn’t be able to deal with demons. His adrenaline starts to rise, knowing he’s going to be the only chance for these people. Good, honest folk, just trying to get on with their lives. This is what Wardens do. This is what _he_ does, what he craves more than anything now: to protect.

He quickly takes stock of the people behind him. “You and you,” he says, pointing at two sturdy looking men. “You can handle a pitchfork?” They nod in unison. He’s always had that ability, able to look at a person and judge their strength. “Then you’ve officially become the last line of defense.” Both men stand a little taller and Blackwall knows that feeling well, felt it himself four years ago when the Warden-Constable told him about the Wardens. “If these demons get past me, it’s up to you to keep everyone safe.”

“Yes, Warden,” one of the men says. “We’ll grab them now.”

Blackwall gives himself one moment to think, _It’s them or me and it’s not going to be fucking me,_ _not today,_ before clanging his sword on the front of his shield. Ritual done, he charges.

It’s been years since he’s fought a demon; he did regularly back when his company toured The Exalted Plains. But muscle memory comes back quickly and and these demons seem weak. Perhaps the further away they are from a rift, the weaker they are. No matter, he thinks, letting out a final taunt, ensuring the demon’s focus is on him and only him.

And then a Terror appears.

“Fuck,” Blackwall mutters under his breath, as he braces himself with his shield, standing firm. He lunges his sword, trying to cut the Terror off at the knees, but it’s already disappeared into the ground. He looks over at the farmers and their families, the two men standing in front of them with their pitchforks, as proud as any Chevalier. “Keep them safe, men,” he calls, reaching for his grappling chain.

With a deafening screech, the Terror pops out of the ground, close to the men. Blackwall will have one chance and he won’t waste it. He throws the chain and it hits his mark, wrapping around the Terror’s torso, before he yanks the chain and the demon back to him.

The terror immediately wraps one of its limbs around his and squeezes hard before letting go. Blackwall’s sword suddenly feels heavy in his hand and he wonders if he’s been cursed by the creature. No matter. Lashing out with his sword, Blackwall feels a renewal of strength surge within him. Two swings later, the Terror lay dead at his feet.

Breathing heavy, he stays in a combat stance, not wanting to be taken by surprise by any extra demons. He looks back at the farmers and smiles to himself. These people would remember his name, _Blackwall’s_ name. The Warden-Constable won’t be forgotten.

Minutes pass, and no more demons appear. Just as Blackwall sheaths his sword, an elderly man, Giles, he vaguely recalls, yells, “The bandits! The bandits took everything!”

His hands curled into fists. Bloody cowards, waiting until he was distracted by the demons before moving onto larger prey. A young girl, no more than twelve runs up to him, holding a skin of water, which Blackwall accepts eagerly. As he drinks, he formulates a plan. He can’t leave the Hinterlands, not yet. Not until these good people had a better chance of defending themselves.

He gives the skin back to the girl and stands in front of the crowd that’s gathered. There’s a strange mixture of hope and desperation radiating from the people. It’s a look he’s seen before. These are a proud people, people who would prefer to solve their problems on their own. They just need someone to show them the way.

“Demons and Blights are why the Grey Wardens are here, why I’m here,” he says, his voice firm and clear. “But I can’t protect you from bandits, not all the time. Some of you will need to stand up. Some of you will need to learn how to fight. If you’ll let me, I can teach you.” Pounding his fist against his chest, he adds, “Who’s with me?”

The farmers cheer and the two pitchfork wielders plus a third walk up to stand by his side. “Well done,” Blackwall says to the men. “Now, we need to gather whatever sort of equipment you have to use in a fight.”

The men lead him away from the crowd and Blackwall wipes the sweat from his brow. As satisfying as this work is, he can’t help but wonder what it might be like to be able to do more. Help more people, do more good. Perhaps someday he’ll have that chance.

In the meantime, he has conscripts to train.


	2. II. Fear

**II. Fear**

Thomas didn’t realize how much death could change a family.

The rhythm of their conversations changed, with one less voice. His mother would bring her handkerchief to her eyes when they let the talk lapse in a spot where Liddy should have been there with a joke, a smile. Rituals were altered - Liddy always set the table for supper - and no matter how hard Thomas tried to take over her duties, it simply wasn’t the same, and to his parents, it wasn’t enough. And the sense that the family might never be right again, lingered over them all.

Hands in his pockets, Thomas walked towards his neighbor’s house, where his mother told him to help out for the day, working in their garden.

His tongue pushed at the loose molar near the back of his mouth. He’d probably end up losing the tooth. Was his own fault, anyway. Thomas knew his old man had been drunk. Should’ve kept his mouth shut. Ever since Liddy died, his father took solace in drink, his mother found joy in nothing, but both seemed to find some cold comfort at berating their only son.

Thomas felt his father’s fists more often, and even though he had started to grow - he was taller than his mother now - Thomas refused to fight back. If only he hadn’t kept bringing Liddy to market or asking her to play when she just wanted to rest in front of the fire… maybe things would be different.

“And there you are, Thomas.” Mistress Falk waited at the front door of her small cottage. “What have you got on your face?"

Thomas glanced away, suddenly ashamed. But Mistress Falk put her hand on his cheek and looked right into his eyes, one half-swelled shut thanks to his father’s drinking the previous night.

“What do you plan on doing with your life, Thomas?”

He shrugged, not quite understanding the question. The path for the rest of his life seemed like it was set in front of him, with no escape. He’d keep working rich men’s farms, and perhaps someday he’d get a promotion, and a bit more coin for his work. Maybe he’d find a wife, maybe not.

Mistress Falk yelled over her shoulder. “Paul! Get out here for a moment.” Then to Thomas said, “Do you remember my boy, Paul? He’s home from militia training for a bit. How would you like to learn how to fight?”

“Never thought about it,” Thomas said honestly.

Paul walked out of the house, a man of about twenty. “What do you want, Mum?”

“Can you teach this boy to fight?”

Thom felt like he was on trial as Paul looked him over. “A bit stocky,” Paul said. “No daggers or bow for you, I think. Give me an afternoon and we’ll see if there’s any potential.”

“Go on, lad,” Mistress Falk said. “We can plant the garden another day.

Thomas followed Paul through the house into the yard and was handed a sword for the first time in his life. The moment his fingers wrapped around the grip, he felt a sense of power, one he had never felt before.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to walk around with his eyes staring at the ground, ignoring the world and the pain around him. Maybe every time he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t see the terror on that dog’s face and hear its pitiful cries.

Maybe next time, he could do something instead.

#

The spymaster _knows._

Blackwall crosses his arms over his chest as he stands at the edge of the slight cliff overlooking the Waking Sea on the Storm Coast. Four bloody years has passed since he walked these very shores, wearing armor that didn’t quite fit with a new name on his tongue.

The pathetic truth is he doesn’t want to be here, not the Storm Coast, and especially not after such an unsettling conversation with Lady Leliana back in Haven. How was he supposed to know the woman traveled with the bloody Hero of Ferelden during the Blight? If he had known, when the Herald asked him about his role, he would have said anywhere else. Orlais. Neverra. The Free Marches. Anywhere but the one place a Warden shouldn’t have been.

He has no choice but to move forward. The Inquisition has already sent out messages requesting aid based on the Grey Warden treaties he provided, the very ones he took from the Warden-Constable’s pack years ago. At least there Blackwall can feel like he’s done some good. Hopefully it will make up for the way he froze when the Herald asked if he was up for a trip to the Storm Coast to meet some mercenaries. He saw the confusion in her eyes as he hesitated, remembering how he hoped once never to come here again.

But if he said no to this first offer, another might never come. He’d been helping out in Haven so many other ways, in the smithy, training the troops, she might think he wasn’t interested in being out in the field, the very place he wanted most to be, where he could do the most good. So Blackwall packed his gear and sat in the wagon with the Herald, Solas and Varric, trying to ignore the memories which kept threatening to sting his eyes.

Tomorrow they would meet the Chargers. He worked with them once, in his sell-sword days, though he was so addled with drink then he barely remembers them. Recalls the horns, those weren’t the type of thing a man forgets. Thankfully Blackwall looks like a completely different man now. No one would recognize Thom Rainier, mercenary for hire, under the beard and a Grey Warden chestpiece.

It’s harder than he thought it would be, living a lie openly among people. Out on his own, he didn’t have to worry about keeping his story straight. After a few days, he’d be gone from the village or town, leaving any questions behind. The Inquisition, and especially its Herald, wants more, demands more. Blackwall worried he ended any chance of an accord with his thoughtless remark about her not being human. She simply brushed it off with a smile and started asking questions. Endless questions. At times it made his head hurt, trying to keep everything straight.

"Blackwall?"

He hears the Herald walking up behind him. Even through the mist, he can smell some sort of stew and his stomach grumbles. Been some time since he split that hardtack with Varric.

She stands next to him, a smile on her face, carrying two bowls. Handing him one, she says, "It's fresh. Soldiers caught a couple of rabbits. Figured you'd want some while it was still hot."

Her thoughtfulness surprises him, but perhaps it shouldn't. This is the same woman who always has a sugar cube to give the horse she never rides when she visits the stables. He fishes out his wooden spoon from his belt pouch and digs in. The stew is fairly bland but the freshness of the meat makes up for it.

"You have your own spoon?" the Herald asks before bringing her own bowl up to her lips.

"I try to keep some trappings of civilization,” he says, taking another bite.

The Herald wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and grins widely. “Then call me uncivilized,” she says, taking another sip of her stew. “I don’t need a spoon to enjoy my supper.”

“Maker’s balls, I didn’t mean it like that, Herald,” Blackwall says, laughing in spite of himself. And to show her he can be uncivilized, too, he brings the bowl to his mouth, not caring when he feels the splash of stew hit his moustache.

“Good man,” the Herald says with a nod of the head and Blackwall feels like he’s passed some sort of test. He hasn’t decided what he believes, whether she’s truly the Herald of Andraste or if there’s something else at play. She doesn’t believe, he learned early on, going out of her way to correct people, though he’s noticed that she no longer says anything when people use the simple title, ‘Herald.’

She takes a deep breath and looks out at the sea. “First time I ever saw the sea was when I came over for the Conclave. Spent the entire time down in the hold, throwing up every bit of food they gave me.” Shuddering, she looks at her bowl as if it is responsible for her lost meals. “Sorry. Not the most pleasant supper conversation."

“Believe me, I’ve had worse,” Blackwall says, thinking back on some of the talks he’s had with soldiers in the barracks and in camps over the years. Even with the thin line between officer and soldier, he always managed to fit in with his men; the line never kept him from learning everything he could about his people. He knew their names, their families, what they wanted out of life after their days in the army were done. Made him a good leader. His men would follow him anywhere. Even when he didn’t deserve it.

With a mock bow, she says, “Your Herald, ladies and gentlemen, providing delightful supper conversation since the Year of the Dragon, nine: eighteen.”

“I told you I’ve been on my own for a bit. Any dinner conversation is appreciated,” Blackwall says, realizing he means it. He forgot how much he enjoyed being part of an armed force, training men the proper way to fight and to sit in a tavern at the end of the day with a pint to simply relax, not to drink himself into a stupor. But then he worries he’s given away too much, and to change the subject from himself, he asks, “So why did you go to the Conclave in the first place?”

Her smile falters for the first time since she’s stood next to him. “You want the official Inquisition reason or the real reason?”

“I told you when we met, when I ask, no dancing.”

“That’s true, you did.” She concedes the point with a tilt of her head and shrugs. “Gold. What other reason was there for a smuggler to be there? The deals I had set up… I would have been a very wealthy woman if the Conclave went as planned, even after the Dasher got his cut. I spent three months and I don’t even want to think how much gold getting everything ready.”

She looks out at the sea, as if they might contain answers she lacks, before bringing up her left hand in front of her face. Her hand is bare, and this is the first time Blackwall has seen her palm up close. The mark’s curious, how it’s able to glow so bright even through leather gloves when it’s near a rift, yet now it looks like any regular hand.

“Before the mark, I would have been furious how the Conclave panned out. I’m not sure I would even care about all the people who died. But now…” The Herald looks up at him then, her face eager. “You’re a Warden, you would know, I bet. Do you think it’s possible for one moment to change everything?”

Blackwall doesn’t trust himself to speak. To think that a Carta dwarf of all people would understand his life so completely, even when she doesn’t know a thing about him… He swallows down all he would say, of the truths he could give her, and reminds himself that she needs - no, she _deserves -_ Warden Blackwall and not the piece of shite that is Thom Rainier.

So he nods instead and together they stare out at the sea.


	3. III. Sloth

**III. Sloth**

“More wine!”

Thom Rainier leaned back in his chair and decided he liked Val Royeaux. He liked it very much, indeed. A barmaid walked over to his table, a table full of people he had met only that night, and set down a new bottle. A woman - Caroline, perhaps? - inched closer towards him. Flush from the warm welcome these people gave him after hearing his name, Thom felt like he could conquer the world at the moment. But he would happily settle for the girl, pulling her onto his lap. She squealed in a mock protest before wrapping her arm around his shoulder.

“So you really won the Grand Melee?” she asked, walking her fingers up his chest.

“That I did,” Thom said, enjoying the look of admiration on the woman’s face and how her arse felt against the palm of his hand. 

His wine glass full, Thom took a long sip, enjoying the richness and flavor, and thought of Markham. Of its poky tavern where no women as beautiful as the one on his knee would ever frequent. No, the tavern back at Markham would be full of men like his father tonight, wanting nothing to do with the rest of the world, only wanting to drink to forget their pathetic lives. The day he finally stood up to his father, made it clear he would never hit his son again, was the day Thom vowed never to live that man’s life.

Thom wanted to see the world. He wanted to travel to all corners of Thedas and devour everything life had to offer. Val Royeaux would just be the start. He had gold, he had looks women admired, and a bit of fame to trade on. Winning the Grand Melee was the best thing to ever happen to him. And if he was careful, the coin he won would last him for years, giving him plenty of time to travel.

Caroline - or maybe her name was Carine, Maker, he didn’t know - brushed her lips against Thom’s neck. He took another gulp of wine before bringing her in close and kissing her. A cheer went up around the table as he felt her press her breasts against his chest. Women like her would always be his undoing. Though part of him always wondered about the next one. Would she be short? Tall? Big tits? Small ones? He was a man easy to please, having that particular talent of being able to find something beautiful about every woman he encountered. The kiss ended and Thom realized that his new friends had emptied the new bottle of wine already. That wouldn’t do. The night was just beginning.

A snap of his fingers and the barmaid came back, and went away again with whispered instructions that there should never be an empty bottle at the table. It would be expensive, but as he and the gentleman to his left started arguing over jousting and Carine’s breath hot against his neck, Thom decided it would be worth it.

He could start saving tomorrow.

#

Blackwall spends most of his nights in Haven in the tavern, nursing a pint and sitting at a table in the corner he’s come to consider his. He sits with his back to the wall and watches all the people around him. Some nights, he’s content to listen to the bard and watch, his social skills still not at their best, not after four years on his own. But other nights, someone will join him, a soldier he’s trained or Varric or more and more often, Sera. The elf seems to have decided they’re friends and he can’t say he minds. There’s something real about her that the rest of Cadash’s inner circle lacks.

And on the rare night Cadash isn’t being run ragged by advisors, she almost always seeks out his company, if she’s able.

The men love seeing her in the tavern, drinking like any other regular person. Blackwall knows she still considers herself just that. A regular person. But he knows she’s anything but. The soldiers adore her, in a way he can’t describe. He has no doubts that most of them would lay down their lives for her without question. The idealist in him hopes none of them ever have to. The soldier of thirty years knows its not a matter of if, but how many.

Tonight he’s alone, drinking a stout; he’s sworn off wine completely, hasn’t had a glass since the night he met the Warden-Constable. The tavern is only half full, but it’s early yet. Tomorrow the journey to The Fallow Mires starts. He’s never been there, one of those places he always avoided as he traveled by foot. But if an Avaar tribe has captured Inquisition soldiers, something has to be done.

His gear is packed, which gives him some time to enjoy the evening before calling it an early night. Just as he takes a sip of his drink, a cheer goes up in the tavern as Cadash steps inside. Before the door is even closed behind her, someone places a drink - a dark ale, probably dwarven - in her hand. Everyone wants to be the one to buy the Herald a drink, and it’s almost always dwarven ale, in deference to her heritage, they tell her.

No one else but him seems to notice the slight grimace on her face after she takes each sip.

Cadash takes a step forward - Blackwall thinks towards his table - but the group surrounding her doesn’t seem to want to let her move. He watches as she smiles and nods, taking just only the occasionally sip of her ale, a grimace following each taste. He used to have that talent, being able to seamlessly fit into a group, always comfortable talking to whoever was in front of him. It’s a gift. He could only imagine that helped during her smuggler days.

The tavern door opens again and Sera bounds inside, making a beeline for his table. “You hungry?” she asks. “Let’s get food.”

He’s never seen anyone eat as much as Sera. But his stomach is growling and he believes the tavern is serving some sort of duck for supper, always one of his favorites. But when he eats in public, Blackwall worries someone will notice he doesn’t eat much for a Grey Warden.

Leliana already mentioned the fact once, though luckily Varric stood in earshot and gave him an unknowing cover, saying the Warden who blew up Kirkwall’s Chantry didn’t eat much either. Blackwall quickly latched on to the idea, saying that a Warden’s appetite returned to normal the longer they were in service.

When in fact, when he first arrived in Haven, Blackwall wondered if perhaps he should take an extra slice of meat or another scoop of vegetables at supper, but decided food is too precious a commodity. In the end, he refused to take any more than he needed. Let Leliana and anyone else wonder; he will not take food out of a child’s mouth.

Cadash glances in his direction then, and Blackwall catches her eye and nods, making a decision. No one deserves an evening of drinking ale they don’t like, and as long as she stands at the bar, that’s all she’ll drink. With a quick motion to the tavern girl, he has another drink brought to the table.

“Herald!” he calls out. Cadash looks over at him and smiles. She really did have a lovely smile. With a jerk of his head he invites her over to the table. Cadash speaks to the group, he can’t hear what she says, and it takes a few minutes, but eventually she makes her way over.

“Blackwall. Sera,” she says as she sits down, placing the glass of dwarven ale far away from her. She mouths ‘thank you’ to him and he can’t help but smirk a bit.

Blackwall picks up her ale and puts it in front of him, while moving his stout over to Sera. “Giving me a freebie, yeah? Fine, I’ll drink your ruddy stout,” Sera says, her voice filled with glee. And then he pushes the pale lager the tavern girl just brought to the table in front of Cadash.

The drink is a light golden color, as different from heavy dark brown dwarven ale as a drink can be. Her head tilts as she looks at him, silently asking a question. Blackwall answers with a nod of the head and crosses his arms over his chest as she brings the glass to her lips.

“Okay, this is good,” Cadash says, her eyes wide. “What is this?”

“Just a run-of-the-mill pale lager, Herald,” Blackwall says, trying to keep the pleased look off his face. “Thought you might enjoy it a bit more than the ale you’ve been drinking.”

“I really like run-of-the-mill pale lager, apparently,” Cadash says, taking another sip.

“You saying you don’t like the other shite people been giving you?” Sera asks.

“I always like free alcohol,” Cadash says diplomatically. Blackwall lets out a bark of a laugh. The Herald really did have a silver tongue at times. “I just like some free drinks more than others.” She takes another swallow. “I’m not really in the position to judge dwarven ale; I’m sun-touched, no real dwarf would care about my opinion.”

“Bloody dwarves and their rules,” Sera says. “Swear the underground types are almost as bad as the weepy elves.”

Cadash lets out a snort. “You wouldn’t be wrong,” she says.

“I knew a dwarf once, made some bloody good dwarven ale,” Blackwall says, remembering one of the mercenaries he worked with before meeting the Warden-Constable. Quite a kick the ale had. Three glasses and Blackwall wouldn’t remember anything come the next morning, which was how he liked to live back then.

“Well, I knew a human who was human, once,” Sera says, sticking out her tongue. “Can I try your lager, lady breeches?”

Cadash slides the glass over to Sera, who takes a large swallow. “Oh this is good,” she says, picking up the dwarven ale. She takes a sip, scrunching her nose. “And this piss is crap. This is all you’ve been drinking? No wonder you’ve been so sober.”

“I’ve been sober because I never have a chance to drink,” Cadash says, shaking her head. “I had to beg Josephine to let me have a night off. Promised I’d sign all her important documents in the wagon tomorrow.”

“You’ll never get steady signatures on a wagon ride,” Blackwall says. He feels his cheeks redden a bit. All the choices she has for company and she comes to this table on her night off. “Well, we’re pleased you could join us, Herald.”

She looks down at the table before taking another sip of her drink. Holding it up in a mock toast, she says, sincerity in every word, “Thank you for the lager.”

As a refugee comes to the table, asking for the Herald’s blessing - which Cadash never gives, instead saying they’ll be in her thoughts - Blackwall can’t shake the feeling she’s thanking him for something else.


	4. IV. Pride

**IV. Pride**

“Rainier?”

Thom stood up, back straight and pulled at the hem of his uniform jacket, wanting to give the best possible impression when he walked into the office. Four years in the Orlesian army and his chance for a promotion had finally arrived. He had worked mercilessly these past four years, desperate to be noticed, to be given the opportunity to be trained as an officer. He might not have the same classical education as most of the other officers, but he understood how to be a leader of men. And he’d be a good one, he knew, if given the chance.

Three masked officers sat at a table as he entered the Major’s office. Major Bouchard had campaigned tirelessly for Thom over the past year, and hopefully all of their efforts would pay off. As an enlisted soldier, Thom wore no mask, so he made sure to keep any emotion off of his face as he settled into a parade rest.

The two officers with Bouchard Thom didn’t recognize. When dealing with masks, Thom learned tells, found other ways to discover someone's identity while waiting for them to speak. Thom had a captain who had a busted toggle on his jacket, hadn’t been mended in more than a year, making Thom believe the man left it on purpose. There were other ways to discover a person, they way they tilted their head, or favored one of their legs. A hundred different ways to discover the true person behind the mask and Thom considered himself an expert at it.

The man on the left had a few loose threads hanging from the hem of his gambeson, almost a crime in Orlais, while the woman silently tapped her foot, over and over again. Thom filed these tells away for later, if needed.

He hadn’t thought the Orlesian army would be the life for him, but when he had realized he was broke with few opportunities outside of mercenary work, it suddenly seemed to be a viable option. Thom simply had no idea how well it would suit him. He loved the life, being in camp, fighting for his adopted homeland. And now hopefully that passion would be rewarded.

“You’re from the Free Marches,” one of the masked men said, a captain, from the look of the insignia. Thom didn’t recognize the voice.

“I am, Captain,” Thom said, not bothering to hide his accent. He knew a couple of other Marchers, so desperate to fit in, they faked the accent, which people always saw through. Nothing like the sneer of an Orlesian looking down on someone trying to fit in.

“And you fight for Orlais?”

There was only one answer. “I would die for my Empress.”

Major Bouchard picked up a box from off of the floor and put it on the desk. “Congratulations, Officer Cadet, Rainier.” She pushed the box towards Thom. “You will wear this in public when you represent the army from now on.”

“Thank you, sers,” Thom said, walking up to the box, knowing what sat inside and realizing the whole outlook of his life was about to change. Making sure his hands stayed steady, Thom opened the box and looked at the mask sitting upon blue silk.

With a deep breath, he placed it on his face, ready to start playing The Game.

#

“This is making my head hurt,” Cadash says, putting her leather coat in her lap and rubbing her temple.

“You’re the one who wanted to know more about military tactics and history, my lady,” Blackwall says with a chuckle.

They sit on chairs outside the small dwelling next to the smithy, working on their gear. The weather is not nearly as chilly as most days, and with the sun high overhead, Cadash suggested they work outside. She does that, Blackwall’s noticed. If given the chance to be out of doors, she takes it. Strange attitude for someone who grew up in cities. He wonders it has anything to do with the mark or the Conclave.

Over the past few months, they’ve developed a routine when it comes to maintaining their kits. In camps, they’ll sit cross-legged on the ground across from each other, within easy distance to share oils or whetstones. Depending who traveled with them, others might join, widening the circle. Cassandra always joins, as does Varric. The mages tend to deal with their gear themselves, unless one needs an extra needle and thread. Blackwall always makes sure he carries extras now. Sera barely maintains her kit, much to his own frustration and Iron Bull prefers solitude when working on his gear.

At Haven, it’s just the two of them, whenever Cadash finds time in between meetings and dealing with the faithful. She’d walk over to the smithy, bow slung across her back, lugging a bag full of equipment. Blackwall would grab his own kit and together they’d start to work. The routine suited him, he found. He always enjoyed taking care of his own gear. Once he made captain in the Orlesian army, they would have provided a man assigned to do all the work for him, but Blackwall refused, preferring to deal with everything himself.

Today Cadash is working on cleaning her armor while Blackwall is sharpening his dagger, wanting to make sure every last piece is ready for tomorrow’s journey to Redcliffe to meet Fiona. It’s comfortable, working with Cadash. She’s seemed to realize there are questions he simply won’t answer and stopped asking. So they talk about the present, sometimes the future and the only history they discuss are those of the great battles of Thedas. And sometimes, they simply don’t talk at all, the silence never uncomfortable between them.

“Can I try that oil you were bragging about?” Cadash asks. “The one you used on the straps on your shield?”

Blackwall furrows his brow. “I don’t have much, my lady. Not enough for your entire jacket.”

She waves a hand. “I just want to try a little bit.” Pointing at the hem of her jacket, she adds, “Just here. Then I can compare. If I like it, we can talk to Threnn about getting more.”

“Well, since you don’t plan on using my entire stock, I suppose I can share,” Blackwall says with a laugh. It’s an oil he hasn’t used in years, one he used regularly back in Orlais. But when he heard Threnn was sending a man to Val Royeaux for supplies, he sent in a request.

He tosses the vial to her and she catches it one-handed. Taking her time, she uncorks the bottle and dampens her rag, before rubbing the oil into her coat. It’s almost sensual the way she strokes and Blackwall inhales sharply at the thought, before pushing it out of his head. No point going down that road, none at all. To distract himself more than anything else, he says, “Do you want to go over the Battle of River Dane?”

Her eyes close and Blackwall can tell she’s thinking. “That’s the last big battle of the Ferelden revolution, right?”

It’s harder than he thought it’d be, talking about some of these battles. He’s learned all about them, of course, but from the viewpoint of Orlais, which was that Ferelden didn’t beat them, they simply weren’t worth the effort any longer. But he’s always enjoyed teaching, and he’s not above feeling a bit pleased that she’s come to him for military history lessons, and not someone like Cullen.

Cadash corks the oil and tosses it back to him. She brings her armor right in front of her face and inhales deeply. “Oh, I like how this oil smells,” she says, taking another deep breath.

Blackwall puts down his whetstone, having finished his dagger and grins. “You’re stalling.”

Hugging her armor to her chest, Cadash shakes her head and says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The Inquisition has perfectly good fletchers,” Blackwall says. “Why do you keep insisting on doing something you hate?” She opens her mouth to speak, but Blackwall holds up his hand, having heard her argument before. “I know, I know, you don’t like the arrows, they’re too human for you.”

“Not too human,” Cadash says sheepishly. “Just too big for my bow. So I make my own.”

He wonders about that, sometimes. Wonders what it must be like to be a dwarf surrounded by so many humans. Besides Varric and Harding, he can only think of a few other dwarves in the Inquisition. Cadash seems to handle everything easily, but even he's noticed a look of frustration on her face when she can't reach something or she's handed an item clearly meant for human-sized hands.

It's not quite the same, but he remembers when he fist enlisted in the Orlesian army, being one of the only Free Marchers, with others pretending not to understand his accent or looking down on his slang. There's something to be said for the familiar, and if Cadash would prefer smaller arrows made my her own hand, he's happy to help.

Blackwall holds out his hand and tries to put a long suffering look on his face, though he’s fairly sure he doesn’t succeed. “Give ‘em here. I’ll notch.”

Her smile takes up almost her entire face. “Thank you!” she says, jumping out of her chair and draping her armor over the stone wall to air it out. She grabs a handful of rods from her quiver. “I’ve already waxed these.”

She stands in front of him and places the soon to be arrows into his outstretched hands. Both of their hands are gloveless, thanks to their work and the tips of her fingers casually brush his palm as she places the arrows in his hand. Blackwall feels a shudder through his body and tries to remember the last time he was touched, skin on skin. He can’t even remember. Before he met the Warden-Constable, certainly. There was a qunari he spent some time with as a mercenary, but on those rare nights he bunked with her, he’d be so drunk it could barely even count as sex.

The air seems warmer now and Cadash sits back down in her chair as if nothing happened. And he’s sure that for her, nothing has, except a pathetic old man offering to put some nocks in her arrows. Blackwall takes a deep breath and grabs his carving knife from his belt. “How many are we making?” he asks, pleased he hears no unsteadiness in his voice.

“Just a dozen,” she says, opening a tin of beeswax.

Blackwall puts the first arrow between his knees and starts to work. He’s notched arrows for her before and remembers how deep to cut. The smooth rhythm of carving calms him and he pushes the memory of Cadash’s touch of out his head.

And before long, he starts to tell her about the Battle of the River Dane.


	5. V. Envy

**V. Envy**

Lieutenant Thom Rainier crossed his arms over his chest and frowned behind his mask. It was a pointless gesture, frowning, when no one else could see. Didn’t stop him from doing it, though. He agreed to wait by the docks of Val Royeaux for fifteen minutes, and already it was minute thirteen.

But then he heard footsteps behind him.

“Lieutenant,” the man drawled, needlessly drawing out the greeting. Thom had no patience for people like these and even less for the games they played. “I’m told that if one needs to arrange for… certain delicate matters, that you are one to speak to.”

“What is it that you want?” Thom said in a quiet voice. He looked straight ahead, not even glancing at the man standing next to him. More plausible deniability that way. Not that Thom had ever gotten caught.

The sound of gold pieces clicking together caught his attention. Took a lot of coin to live a proper life in Val Royeaux. With the amount of traveling he did, owning a residence seemed a waste. So there were inns to pay for, and Thom refused to stay at any he considered beneath him. Of course, he rarely spent any time in his rented rooms, preferring to go to the local tavern and spending nights with whatever woman caught his fancy.

His superiors officers hinted it might be time for him to settle down, at the age of thirty-three, but Thom knew he had a few more years left of dalliances before it would be time to start a search for a wife. He already felt poorly for the unlucky creature who agreed to marry him. Someone would, though. He’d be a captain soon and woman did love throwing their daughters at military officers.

“You have a peer,” the gentleman said. “This man has designs on a woman I’d… well, perhaps you are above such details?”

“The less I know the better.”

“Someone after my own heart,” the man said. “I don’t want this man dead, just taken out of commission for a while.”

Thom raised his chin, wanting this conversation to be over so he could get out of public and take off his damn mask. He had other masks, non-military ones, that he wore for when he shopped or went to dinner parties. But those only covered the front part of his face. These military ones were more like a sculpted helmet, cutting of some of his peripheral vision and making him sweat like a beast of burden.

“Say the name once.”

The man said the name, another lieutenant. Easy enough. The officer in question had a known weakness covering his left side. Thom could request a spar and easily break the man’s leg. No one would blame him in the slightest. Might even speed up his own promotion. “Give me two weeks.”

#

“I brought water. You men must be so thirsty.”

Blackwall shakes his head and goes back to his work. He’s in the smithy today, making blunt practice weapons so the more experienced blacksmiths can focus on weapons for the officers. He’ll be the first to admit he’s not the best at smithing, but he’s done it enough throughout his life where he can contribute a bit, at least. And since he’s not able to train recruits today, thanks to his bloody knee, he’d rather help somewhere than be idle.

It’s hot work, standing at the forge, but he’ll wait on the water. Years ago, Thom Rainier would have tried to impress a woman like that, probably wouldn’t have even taken too long to get her into bed. He cut an impressive figure once, before age caused wrinkles under his eyes and too much drink reddened his cheeks.

Eventually the woman leaves, and the conversation starts up again. Blackwall’s content to just listen to the others. There’s a lot to be learned by listening, he’s found. It’s a lesson that’s served him well over the years.

“Heard the Herald snuck into Tethras’ tent last night,” one of smiths says casually.

Blackwall accidentally tightens the grip on his tongs, leaving a mark on the blade he’s forging. He wonders if there’s any truth to that rumor, about Varric and Cadash, before deciding it’s rubbish. Having been in camp with both of them just a couple of days ago, he would have known, wouldn’t he? Cadash spent most her free time with _him_ anyway and the times she talked to Varric the only topic had been dwarven merchant business. His dismissal of the rumor doesn’t make the knot that’s suddenly formed in his stomach disappear, though.

“That’s a fucking lie and you know it,” Harritt says. Blackwall’s just about to speak up in agreement when Harritt adds with a laugh, “She has that nice comfortable room, with that nice comfortable bed. Why would they do it in a tent?”

“How do you know her bed is comfortable, eh Harritt?” says one of the younger smiths.

Blackwall’s sure the laughter of the group could be heard all the way in the Chantry. He’s never minded good natured gossip or teasing, always allowing it with his men and even indulged in it a bit himself. But they’re laughing about his lady Herald. That, he couldn’t allow.

“You’re talking about the Herald of Andraste,” Blackwall says, a bit sharper than he intends as he brings his blade over to the nearest anvil. “She deserves better than the lot of you gossiping about her like bloody fish wives.”

The laughter stops at once and Blackwall hears more than one muttered “Sorry, Warden,” towards his direction. Wiping the sweat off his brow, Blackwall reaches for his hammer. He continues smithing in silence, while the men switch to other topics, such as how many people Iron Bull has fucked since arriving in Haven.

Once the blade is done, Blackwall’s decided he’s had enough of the smithy. Three practice blades would have to be enough for the day. After saying his goodbyes, Blackwall walks into the room off the smithy, the one he shares with Harritt and Master Dennet and grabs his gambeson.

There’s something restless in him today. His hands won’t keep still and he thinks about grabbing his carving knife and finding a fresh piece of wood. Instead, he scoops up a pile of snow and runs it over his face, trying to wipe away some of the sweat. The sharp cold from the snow wakes him up a bit. Something’s off. Blackwall starts fastening the toggles on his jacket, trying to figure out what it might be.

Maybe it’s the map of the Deep Roads. After meeting with the Fiona and Alexius, followed by the encounter with Dorian in the Chantry, Cadash marched them south, to one of the rumored Warden camps. They found an artifact, and in his excitement, Blackwall can’t even remember if he thanked her properly. So he will, he decides. Next time she comes to talk to him, he’d thank her, hopefully before they leave for Redcliffe Castle in a few days.

In the meantime, he needs to figure out something to do with himself. Supper would be served soon. Perhaps it’s not too early for a pint; he could go talk to Sera. As he starts the walk to the tavern, he nods and greets almost everyone he passes. Amazing how four years passed with him keeping contact with others to a minimum only to arrive here at Haven and somehow becoming a pillar of the place. Blackwall did have to admit he enjoyed the bustle and the common cause. Even in the Orlesian army, he hadn’t felt this much of a sense of pride working towards something.

Varric’s standing outside his tent, staring at something. Curiosity gets the better of him, and Blackwall walks up to the dwarf. Turning, he stands next to Varric, facing in the same direction. “What are we looking at?”

“I’m trying to figure out who Cadash is talking to,” Varric says slowly. “I don’t recognize him.”

Blackwalls looks again and sees Cadash standing outside her dwelling, animatedly talking to another dwarf. She’s wearing a new outfit; it’s not one he’s seen before, with a leather bodice. His eyes linger over the curve of her hips and the roundness of her arse before he catches himself and forces those thoughts out of his head.

“Any guesses?” he asks, glancing up at the sky and most definitely not at how this new outfit hugs her waist. It’s rare to have someone he doesn’t recognize this close to the Herald. He wouldn’t be surprised if the spymaster has a few people watching this conversation right now.

“He’s Carta, I can tell you that,” Varric says.

“Really?” Blackwall asks, looking at the man again. Blackwall guesses the man’s age to be about thirty, though he’s certainly no expert at dwarven ages. He tries to find something that might mark him as a criminal, but isn’t able to find any tells. “You can tell just by looking at him?”

“I pegged Cadash as Carta after knowing her for all of five minutes,” Varric says with a shrug. “What can I say, I’m a storyteller. I’m good at observing things.”

Blackwall grunts in acknowledgment, remembering how well Varric unknowingly had his number after only a few days. Dark and troubled past, indeed.

“And I might have heard the guy call her _salroka._ You don’t call someone that unless you mean it,” Varric says.

“What’s it mean?” Blackwall asks quietly.

“Literally? One at my side,” Varric says. “Basically, it means friend. But it’s not a term thrown around lightly. It means they’ve seen some shit.” Kneeling down, Varric pokes at the small camp fire with a stick. “He’s got to be Carta. They just don’t have friends outside of their gang. That’s just the way things are done.”

“I consider the Herald a friend,” Blackwall says, crossing his arms over his chest, realizing with a flash down his spine just how much he means it.

And just like that, he needs to realign his view of the world. He… he cares for her, the Herald of Andraste, the last person in Thedas he has a right to care for. His mind starts spinning, trying to define exactly how he feels and he stumbles across the word _admiration._ Blackwall lets out a slow breath. Admiration is safe. No one would question anyone’s admiration for the Herald. Especially not his.

It’s even a sentiment he could share with Cadash. He will, he decides, when he thanks her for finding the map. Perhaps speaking the word out loud will lessen the vice around his chest.

“Yeah, but Cadash isn’t Carta anymore,” Varric says. “She can be friends with anyone she wants now.” Varric slaps his thigh. “Come on, let’s grab a drink and play a round of Wicked Grace before supper, Hero.”

With one last look at Cadash, Blackwall turns and walks with Varric towards the tavern. Tomorrow, he tells himself. He’ll talk to the Herald tomorrow.


	6. VI. Desire

**VI. Desire**

“Do we have an agreement?” Chapuis asked quietly. Thom raised his glass to his lips, buying himself another moment to think. The brandy tasted slightly bitter on his tongue, so he swallowed and decided he had no choice. He had gone too far into the gast’s cave; he knew too much.

If Thom backed out now, he’d never leave this house alive. Chapuis was a respected Chevalier and the only weapon Thom currently had on him was a dagger strapped to his boot.

Thom looked across at Chapuis. Neither one of them wore masks tonight, a sign of trust, but also an unspoken acknowledgment that the plan being discussed amounted to treason. Treason. The word crumbled on his lips. He had always been loyal to his adopted country, even when it wanted to chew him up and spit him out. For twenty years, he had played The Game, elevating himself to Captain, even as some still looked down at him for being a Free Marcher.

And he could admit it to himself, even if he could admit it to no one else. Thom was tired.

He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, before settling back in his chair and crossing his legs. He looked about the handsome sitting room, with its tapestries and art with heavy gold frames on the wall and decided this was his future. The time had come to finally settle down, buy a home, find a wife, maybe even have a few children. The gold Ser Robert just offered him would allow Thom to do all of that.

All it would cost was the lives of a general and a few of his soldiers. Up until this evening, Thom had a hard, fast rule when it came to arranging certain matters for nobles: no killing good Orlesian soldiers. Even so, every so often, a noble would make a request, never someone specific, just making an offhand comment. Thom would ask for the offer, wondering wonder what his price would be, what might actually make him sit up and say, yes, that is worth the life of a man. Back when he was an idealistic Officer Recruit, he told himself he had no price.

Big fucking lie that turned out to be.

Thom put the glass of brandy down on the side table and stood up. It felt wrong, the idea of accepting this job sitting down on his arse. So he stood and held out his hand. “We have a deal.”

They shook hands like proper gentlemen and Chapuis even offered a cigar. In silence they stood and Thom watched his honor disappear in the smoke.

#

“For a banquet that only had three hours notice, this was a damn fine banquet,” his lady says with a decisive nod of the head. “I think I’m drunk.” Bethroot looks up at him earnestly and grabs the hem of his gambeson. “Do you think I’m drunk?”

Blackwall’s not positive, but since the world is tilting a bit, he thinks he might not be the best judge of Bethroot’s sobriety. Around them, the people of Haven celebrated the triumphant return of the Herald and the alliance with the mages. “I think I should be sitting down right now,” he says after a moment’s thought.

“Good plan,” Bethroot says, finally letting go of his gambeson. “You always have good plans.”

They sit down on a bench circling the large bonfire created for the evening, outside by the pond. She stares into the fire, a peaceful look on her face. It’s not a look she wears often, understandably so. He can’t even imagine the pressure she’s under, especially now, to close the Breach.

“My lady,” he says suddenly. Her head turns at once and Bethroot looks up at him expectantly. He’s not sure what he planned on saying and now nothing comes to mind. Bloody alcohol. “I’m going to get some nuts. Would you like some?”

“Yes, please,” she says, bringing her knees up to her chest. He watches her for a moment as she rests her chin on knees and closes her eyes and he has the sudden urge to stroke her hair.

“Nuts. Right,” Blackwall mutters, standing up, not quite as unsteadily as he would of thought. He makes his way back to the food table, which is mostly empty now, except for some left-over trenchers and a few bowls of nuts. He scoops up a handful, not bothering with a bowl and walks back to his lady.

Her eyes stay closed as he sits down and with his free hand, he nudges Bethroot’s shoulder. She nods in thanks, grabbing some of the nuts from his hand. It only takes a few moments before they’re all gone.

“I think I’m ready for bed,” she announces with a yawn. “Lots to do tomorrow before we leave for the Forbidden Oasis.”

“And then we close the Breach,” Blackwall says. He stands and holds a hand out to her. “I’ll walk you to your room, my lady.”

She puts both her hands in his and he helps her stand, trying to ignore the way their hands linger together just a moment more than they should. Her goodbyes are swift; most people have already left for the night. And before long, they walk towards her room, a comfortable silence falling over them.

The night air is crisp and clear and when he glances up, all he can see are stars. The sight makes him maudlin for a moment, remembering all the nights he’s spent by himself over the past few years, only having the constellations for company. And now he’s walking next to a dwarf who thinks he’s oddly charming.

Oddly charming.

He’s replayed the conversation a dozen times in his head, two dozen, even. And every time he comes to the same conclusion: she flirted with him. The Herald of Andraste flirted with _him_ , a man twice her age without a single thing he can give her in this world. The thought reddens his cheeks, even more than they already are.

They reach her small dwelling and she makes no move to open the door and go inside, instead leaning against the doorway. “Redcliffe…” She looks up at him. “I still can’t quite believe what happened there.”

“I don’t want to,” Blackwall says roughly, thinking of all the implications of their journey to the castle. Time travel. It doesn’t even seem possible. And then that horrible moment…

“What do you mean?” she asks softly.

“My lady,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You died.” Reaching out, he puts his gloved hand on her cheek, remembering the sharp pain in his gut the moment she disappeared and the utter relief that washed through him when she appeared again.

Bethroot leans into his touch and he’s a fucking idiot but right now he doesn’t care. His blood is warm, his mind is fuzzy and his lady is _right here_. Years ago, when he thought he might like a wife one day, before he became an officer and decided any minor noble’s daughter would do, he always planned on truly courting the woman, whoever she was. If he had any right to happiness, he would court this woman in front of him.

But he doesn’t. He has no right.

So he removes his hand from her cheek and crosses his arms over his chest, trying to maintain his senses. They’re standing in the doorway of her small dwelling. Anyone could walk by and see them here. And if they are touching, well, he knows how people like to gossip, especially about the Herald. He can’t do that to her reputation. He won’t.

“I didn’t, though,” she says, her voice low and warm. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. “You were so brave, Blackwall. You simply nodded and walked through that door and I knew if the spell didn’t work I would never see you again.”

She looks up at him through her eyelashes and with a start, Blackwall realizes she wants him. He recognizes the heat in her eyes, pupils wide, and the slight upward curve of her lips. It’s a look he’s seen often over the course of his life, but certainly not in any recent memory. Perhaps it’s just the alcohol, he decides. She’s had too much to drink and who doesn’t want a warm body next to them at the end of night like this?

It’s a heady thing, he discovers, to be wanted by the Herald. He wonders if there’s any chance she wants him as much as he wants her. And thanks to the alcohol, Blackwall can finally admit the truth to himself and confess he does want her. To think all he would have to do is open this door… He’s never been with a dwarf and doesn’t know how that would even work but it doesn’t matter because it simply cannot happen.

“Well,” Blackwall says gruffly, trying to find the willpower to walk away. He needs to, quickly. What they both want doesn’t matter. He’s not about to tie her down to a fucking mongrel, not when she deserves so much more than the likes of him. “We’re both here now.”

Instead of replying, Bethroot hugs him.

Her entire body is pressed against him. Her head doesn’t even reach the top of his shoulders, so he feels her breasts pressed against his stomach, her arms wrapped around his waist. It’s been years since he’s been hugged liked this and Blackwall feels his body responding.

He might be starved for touch, but he still has some bloody pride, so he takes Bethroot by the shoulders and gently pushes her away from him. In a soft voice, he says, “You’re drunk, my lady. Perhaps you should get some sleep.”

Nodding, she starts to play with the hem of her sash. Blackwall swallows, recognizing the game. She’s giving him one last chance to join her tonight. And since he can’t, no matter how much he wants to, no matter how much his groin begs him to, he doesn’t move a muscle. After a moment of silence, she pushes the door open. “Bed sounds good,” she says, stepping inside her room.

From the door, he can see her bed, with a crumpled quilt covering it. He doesn’t want to think about beds or her being even close to one, not when he could simply take one step forward and know she would welcome him in hers. So he bows slightly at the waist. “Sleep well.”

“Good night, Blackwall,” she says, a soft smile on her lips, before she shuts the door in front of her.

He backs away from her dwelling like it’s on fire. Perhaps he’ll take his own advice and go to bed. Hopefully sleep will help let him forget the way her body felt so perfectly right against his own.

Somehow, Blackwall doesn’t think he’ll be that lucky.


	7. VII. Rage

**VII. Rage**

The Crown and the Lion was a ridiculous name for a tavern.

Thom took another gulp of wine, hardly even tasting it, as more and more militia marched inside the bar. “Great,” Thom muttered. As long as the men didn’t get in his way, he could try to ignore them well enough; cocky bastards who still thought they could save the fucking world.  He had just enough coin to pay for his drinks tonight before finishing the job tomorrow and receiving another week’s wages.

He didn’t like Amaranthine. There was something about the place that felt smug, like they were better than all the other cities out there. So what if the fucking Hero of Ferelden saved it? She had saved a lot of places. What made _it_ special? No. No, he wanted to go back to Orlais where things made sense. At least in Orlais he knew everyone was a masked bastard with a knife behind their back, ready to slip it between someone’s ribs for a silent kill. Here, in Ferelden, he couldn’t tell the good from the bad.

Except for him, of course. No redemption for Desmond Allard, or whatever the fuck his name was this week.

Thom downed the rest of his wine and held up his tankard, ready for another round. Two more glasses and he could go to his room upstairs and pass out. Six or seven blissful hours where he didn’t have to remember who he was or what he had done. Those were the hours that he lived for. When he could forgot.

Funny how all men seemed to turn into their fathers no matter how hard they try to escape that fate.

When Thom left Markham twenty-five years ago, he thought his father pathetic, the way the man went to the tavern every night. Thom had no idea, no bloody clue that one single moment could change a man’s life so completely. For his father, it was Liddy’s death. For Thom, it was knowing he would rather kill a child than possibly lose face. It didn’t matter that he didn’t actually kill any of Callier’s children. He gave the orders. _No one left alive._

His tankard sat empty. Thom half stood, looking for the tavern girl. She was a slip of a thing, elven blood, probably. But she’d curtsied and promised he’d have his wine. A cheer from the bloody militia went up and Thom looked over. There the tavern girl sat on some whelp’s lap. Thom shook his head in disgust before he realized the girl didn’t seem to be on the boy’s lap willingly.

She struggled to stand up and even then, the militia seemed content to block her way. That wouldn’t do, Thom decided, pushing up his shirt sleeves. He hadn’t been in a good fight for weeks; his current contract just had him guarding a work site. Perhaps these boys might put up a bit of a challenge, though he doubted it.

But in the end it didn’t matter as long as he got his fucking wine.

#

“If it will save these people, he can have me.”

Blackwall feels his chest constrict at Bethroot’s words, at the calmness in her voice as if she’s already accepted the inevitability of her death. In the other rooms of the Chantry, he can hear people screaming, children crying, always crying and it takes him back to that night, that fucking night.

_Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still-_

He rips the memory from his mind; he needs to concentrate on the here and now. Somehow they have to figure out a way to save the people of Haven. As Roderick speaks, perhaps revealing a way, Blackwall feels a quiet inferno building in his stomach. Templars twisted; people who should be going out of their way to protect innocents are now ready to cut them down. It must stop.

“Let that thing hear you.”

The Herald stares at the door and Blackwall can’t help but think how small she seems, especially compared to that dragon - _Archdemon_ \- whatever it is and it’s master, a living darkspawn of some sort. He makes a decision and walks up to her, putting his gloved hand on her shoulder. She looks up at him then. No one would ever call his lady a beautiful woman, but she is striking and right now, the fire and determination in her eyes are the most magnificent things he’s ever seen.

“You’re not doing this alone,” he says quietly, meaning every word. If the Herald is willing to lay down her life for the people of Haven, he’ll be right by her side. And just like that dark future, perhaps his life will have meaning at last. She reaches up and puts her fingers on top of his, still staring at the door. “You’re hurting. Angry,” he tells her. “Use it. The pain will make you stronger.”

Bethroot nods once before looking up at him. There are unspoken words in her eyes but there’s simply no time. “Thank you,” she says instead, and there are layers in her voice he would give _anything_ to understand. She turns to see who has stayed. Blackwall expected Cassandra willing to help, but is surprised to see Solas leaning on his staff instead of going with the rest of Haven.

And with that, Bethroot opens up the door and Blackwall can already see the Red Templars running towards them. In a voice fierce and sure, she says, “Let’s make these bastards sorry they ever stepped foot in Haven.”

The fight to the trebuchet takes longer than it should. The Red Templars are strong and even with Solas’ barrier protecting him and Cassandra, Blackwall feels his strength waning. And each time they stop to fight, Blackwall looks down and sees another body of a good Inquisition soldier. He sees Jeremy Cadwell, a young man who never held a sword until Blackwall showed him how. Lana Templeton, who had some of the best footwork Blackwall had seen in years. And Mickey Foster, only thirteen years old, who brought water to the soldiers as they sparred.

Blackwall fights for them, the inferno still rising inside, threatening to turn him into ash.

They take turns manning the trebuchet, aiming it, as they fight the Red Templars and the other monsters made of nightmares. It’s Bethroot who stands at the wheel of the trebuchet when it finally locks into position. She screams at them to run as the Archdemon flies overhead. Blackwall keeps her in the corner of his eye; with her shorter legs she simply can’t run as fast as the others. And he wants to make sure all of them get out of here alive.

But then the Archdemon breathes fire, a barricade explodes, and everything goes black.

He’s not sure how much time has passed when he wakes up. Blackwall grabs his head, feeling blood trickling down his temple. Steadying his hands on a rock, he pushes himself off of the ground, feeling a wave of nausea pass over him. Definitely a concussion. He’s had enough in his life to recognize the symptoms.

The events of before rush back to him and Blackwall turns around, too quickly, and has to sit down. He sees Solas speaking to Cassandra about ten yards away. And Bethroot…

He doesn’t see Bethroot.

“My lady,” he calls out, desperately hoping to hear her voice. Blackwall tries to get a better idea of where they are. The blast knocked them about fifty yards from Haven, but there’s a wall of fire preventing him from seeing anything near the trebuchet. He yells out again. “Herald!”

“Blackwall,” Cassandra says, hurrying over to him. Solas is right behind, though walking with a slight limp. The Seeker turns in a circle, clearly looking for Bethroot. “I don’t see her.” Cassandra’s voice is as frantic as Blackwall’s ever heard. “She was right there with us. She has to be here.”

“Then we have to go back,” Blackwall says. His sword is still by his side, so he unsheathes it and uses it for balance. He’s in no condition to fight, but they need more time, they have to find Bethroot and give the people of Haven their chance to escape. And if he has to die to make that happen, so be it.

“Are you mad?” Solas asks. “We’ll never make it through the fire."

“You’re a mage,” Blackwall says with a snarl. “Get us through. We have to find-” He stops and takes a breath. “We have to destroy that army. The trebuchet is the only way.”

“Solas is right,” Cassandra says. She shakes her head and Blackwall can tell by the curve of her shoulders she’s accepted defeat. “That is not ordinary fire. I don’t want to do this, but we need to catch up to Cullen and help with the refugees.”

“And leave the Herald to die, after all she’s done?” Blackwall says, a feeling of helplessness threatening him. “Absolutely not. She deserves better than that.”

“There’s nothing we could have done. The explosion separated-”

“I should have picked her up and fucking carried her.” Blackwall’s breathing hard now, and puts his hands behind his head. His lady would have never allowed it, but he should have done it anyway, her pride be damned. He takes a step towards Haven and stops, feeling like his head is about to explode.

“There’s the signal,” Cassandra says quietly. Blackwall looks up just as the flare starts to fall. “The people are safe at least.”

“Not with that army out there,” Blackwall says, thinking like the captain he used to be and not a Grey Warden. “Without the trebuchet, Cullen’s just given away their position.”

Cassandra’s eyes are wide in horror as his words sink in. Blackwall’s furious with the situation, angry bile filling up his gut, thinking about the reality that’s just been handed to them. He thinks of Bethroot, of her lovely smile, and silently promises he will remain the man she went to her death thinking he was. Always. And to keep that promise, he must leave her behind.

“Come,” Blackwall says, turning from Haven, away from _her_. “The people will need as many fighters as possible to protect them.”

“The trebuchet!” Solas says.

Blackwall turns in time to see the trebuchet fire. “She’s alive, then,” he says, his voice caught in his throat, desperately clinging to the thought, as his heart hammers against his chest. “We should be safe from the snow here. She’s sure to be running.”

“The fire-”

“Dwarves have some magical resistance, don’t they?” He remembers she told him about it once, one night in camp. “If anyone can make it through, she can,” he says, watching as the avalanche starts. He squints his eyes, hoping for some sign of her. “She has to make it through."

“If the army is destroyed, we have time to catch up to the rest,” Cassandra says. Blackwall hears the hope threading her voice as well. “Let us wait for a moment.”

The snow takes on a life of its own. Blackwall tries not to think of all the lives being lost; he can’t imagine a worse way to die. So instead he waits for the Herald, sure she’s about to run towards him with a smile on her lips and a knowing tilt of her head.

He waits. He waits, even as the snow covers the village of Haven. Even as he sees that bastard fly away on his pet Archdemon. Even as the snow puts out the fire in front of him. Even as the inferno which filled his body freezes and shatters within him, forcing him to accept the truth.

His lady is dead.

Yet still he waits.


	8. VIII. Despair

**VIII. Despair**

Thom stared at the chestpiece in his hands until he had every detail memorized. The curve of the wings, the starkness of the talons, the coolness of the metal. Silverite, he thought.

Carefully, as if it were made of glass, Thom rested the chestpiece on the sand. It took a few tries for him to stand up; he was in bad shape. After the Warden-Constable fell, Thom had fought like a man possessed, not willing to let any of those creatures near the man’s body.

Blackwall deserved that much.

Thom concentrated on finding some sort of kindling: leaves, twigs, anything that might help start a fire. The air was peaceful now; he should be able to start a blaze without too much difficulty. He was an expert at building pyres, having built far more than his share on the battlefield. He’d already removed anything of value from the Warden-Constable: treaties yellowed with age, a dagger strapped to his boot, a small pocket version of the Chant of Light.

Perhaps Thom could return these to the Grey Wardens somehow. Perhaps…

The thought was fleeting, but it took root, spreading quickly through his mind like a tangled weed. He wiped blood from his forehead, his own plus the thick dredge of darkspawn’s. This wasn’t the time though, first he needed to cremate the Warden-Constable. He would give the man a proper burial, if it was the last thing he did.

His knee howled with each step. He had done some serious damage to it during the battle but Thom didn’t let a sound cross his lips as he built up the pyre. Finally, he found a stone and grabbed his fire striker from his pack, one of the few things that managed to survive the darkspawn.

Kneeling, Thom started to hit the striker against the stone. With each hit, he thought about his life, how empty and hollow it truly was; he saw that now. The knowledged settled deep in his bones, down to his marrow. Any good he had done in the Orlesian army was completely overshadowed by the lives he ruined along the way.

And then there were the children… And his men.

Three of them had already hung. Three were out there in the world somewhere, in hiding most likely. He could never make it up to them. Never.

The sparks finally decided to catch hold, and the kindling began to burn. Thom stood a respectful distance back and watched the flames spread. It would be several hours before the Warden-Constable was no more than bone fragments and ash but Thom resolved to stand guard the entire time.

And when the deed was done, Thom put on the Warden-Constable’s chestpiece, decision made. The nearest outpost was miles away and Thom was bleeding and barely able to stand.

If he made it there alive, when people asked him his name, he’d tell them “Warden Blackwall.”

#

There are ghosts in these forests, Blackwall decides.

He’s had a healthy respect for ghosts for years now, ever since he closed the eyes of the Callier children. Sometimes he wonders if they watch him, if they approve of the way he’s trying to make things right. But here in the forest, he feels the ghosts of Haven clinging to his skin. Blackwall hopes they understand that the Inquisition is trying. They’re doing their damndest to keep the good people of Haven alive, but it’s harder than most realize to keep eighty people feed and warm, when there are only so many supplies.

A solid crack is heard to the northwest. Beside him, Varric aims his crossbow and fires and the nearby ram falls to the ground. “Doesn’t feel right using Bianca for this.”

“You’ve just fed a dozen people with that shot,” Blackwall says, walking over the dead ram. “You’re saying Bianca wouldn’t approve?”

“You make an excellent point, Hero,” Varric says, swinging the crossbow onto his back. “Suppose I should be grateful we’ve found as many rams out here as we did. Thought we killed enough of them back in the Hinterlands. Didn’t realize we’d need even more.”

The sun has set and Blackwall feels a chill, even with his gambeson. Just the mention of the Hinterlands makes him think of Bethroot; an easy thing since she’s rarely left his thoughts since the attack on Haven. He thinks back on their first meeting, before he even knew she was the Herald and how he pledged himself to the Inquisition’s cause solely based on the fire in those blue eyes of hers.

Blackwall’s chest constricts at the thought of those blue eyes lost in the snow, wondering where the Inquisition had gone, perhaps even wondering where _he_ had gone. The thought claws at him, makes him wonder if there was something, _anything,_ that he could have done to save her.

But then a frosty sort of certainty settles over his skin; almost forty-eight hours have passed since the attack. If his lady somehow managed to survive the avalanche, she’s surely dead by now.

And then what? What happens to her then? The vision of her wandering around in the snow will not leave his head and he knows next to nothing about the dwarven ways.

“Varric?” he asks.

“Yeah, Hero?”

“The Herald. She doesn’t - didn’t - believe in the Maker,” Blackwall starts.

“Believed in the Stone,” Varric says, shaking his head. “We talked about that once. Her mother was for Orzammar, did you know that? Taught Cadash to believe in the Stone.” Varric kicks his boot into the snow. “Stupid.”

Blackwall’s not sure what to make of that. “What happens to dwarves after they die?”

“Shit, do we really need to talk about this now?” Varric asks. “Let’s go kill more rams.”

“I’d like to know,” Blackwall says, his voice quiet.

Varric shakes his head. “I don’t have answers you’ll want to hear,” he says, tugging at lapels of his leather coat. There’s an uneasiness in his voice that worries Blackwall. “She was a surfacer who believed in the Stone. You just don’t do that.”

A shiver of fear crawls down Blackwall’s back. “Why not?”

“Because the Stone rejects surfacers. So instead of her spirit joining the Ancestors, like it would if she was from Orzammar, her spirit…” Varric stops talking and puts his hand over his face. “Her spirit…” Blackwall watches Varric take a deep breath before looking up right at him. “She’s never going to be at rest, Hero. She’ll become a wraith or a shade.”

“No,” Blackwall whispers, feeling his body freeze as his mind goes over Varric’s words. It’s impossible to believe. That someone so lively, sofucking _vibrant_ , could be condemned to such an existence.

“But that’s what she believed,” Varric says quickly. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this, but I believe in the Maker. I know you believe in the Maker.” Varric unslings his crossbow from his back. “So as far as I’m concerned, she passed through the Fade and is sitting pretty right next to the Him as we speak.”

Blackwall closes his eyes and tries to accept Varric’s words. Perhaps he’s right. She was Andraste’s Chosen, after all. The Maker wouldn’t allow her to become a shade or a wraith, stuck wandering the Fade for the rest of her existence.

Varric shoots his crossbow and Blackwall watches a fennec fall. “Meat is meat, right?”

Nodding absently, Blackwall looks up at the sky. It’s getting darker now. He can dwell on Varric’s words after his guard shift tonight. But for now, he needs to push them away, so he can concentrate on the here and now. So he can concentrate on the people of Haven.

It’s what she would have done.

His stomach grumbles, having eaten less than he should these past two days, handing his trenchers and meat to children and the infirm. Cullen and the people of Haven only had time to bring so many supplies with them. Food is scarce, even with hunting and gathering. But they did kill six rams today, so hopefully there will be enough for everyone at supper.

“You hear something?” Varric asks softly, holstering Bianca.

Blackwall kneels, picking up the ram and hoisting it over his shoulder. He can hear a hum through the crowd, an excitement he’s not heard before. “Why don’t we see what the fuss is about?”

They walk back towards camp, through the forest, with its ghosts. They weigh on him even more, thinking that Bethroot might be one of them. He remembers the way she looked at him that night after Redcliffe Castle, with desire in her eyes, and wonders if she would haunt him.

Sure that she always will.

He can see the camp now and instead of people walking around, trying to keep warm, and doing things to keep busy, everyone seems still. Mouths are silently moving and people are grasping each other’s hands. And then he hears the words on everyone’s lips.

“The Herald.”

His knees almost give way, but he’s holding a bloody ram and people need to be fed. Blackwall listens carefully as he walks toward the hunters. Every step and every heartbeat unscrews the vice around his chest. A scout reported seeing someone in the snow. That’s all they know.

For a moment he lets himself hope, lets himself dream, that perhaps she managed to find them after all. Though this time of night, the scout could have seen anything. It could have been an animal or a trick of the light. But at the same time, he desperately wants to believe. So he drops off the ram and walks to the front of the camp, ready to join in the search.

Solas and Cole are there. Blackwall looks at Cole suspiciously, still not sure what he - it - is. Solas seems to trust him and for now, that will have to be enough. “Any word?” Blackwall asks, wishing the light note of hope in his chest would disappear. It will hurt, oh it will _hurt_ , when everyone returns empty handed.

“But their hands will not be empty,” Cole says in that strange lilt of his. “They have found the Herald.”

Blackwall doesn’t even have time to react before Cassandra comes running around the bend. “Blackwall, help Cullen. Solas, she’s so cold,” Cassandra says quickly. “I will get a tent ready.”

He feels light, lighter than he has in years and for almost a moment the ghosts of his past lift off his shoulders. _Bethroot is alive._ If Cassandra hadn’t assigned him a task, he’s sure he’d be on his knees in gratitude, for her, for himself, for the people of Haven. Instead, he springs into action.

“Find Adan,” Solas tells Cassandra. “Good fortune the Herald saved his life.”

Blackwall uses the trail Cassandra broke, with Solas right behind him. They turn the corner and there she is, in Cullen’s arms. Her armor is soaked through and he sees dirt and blood caking her face, but she’s breathing, _oh Maker, she’s breathing_. Each rise and fall of her chest seem a miracle and if he thought himself worthy to give praise to Andraste, he’d be whispering prayers in thanks.

“Take her, Blackwall,” Cullen says quickly. They meet and Cullen gently places Bethroot in Blackwall’s outstretched arms. She’s sound asleep, her breathing heavy and even; he guesses she probably hasn’t even closed her eyes since Haven was destroyed. There’s a new scar on her chin and Blackwall wonders if she’ll keep it.

She’s lighter than he thought she would be. Or maybe he’s stronger. Doesn’t matter. Bethroot is _alive_ and in his arms _;_ she’s not a spirit or a wraith, destined to be alone for the rest of eternity.

Blackwall senses the tingle of magic and braces himself as Solas casts some sort of spell. A sensation not unlike a barrier spell washes over them. It’s fire magic and he sets his feet and doesn’t waver as the magic does it’s work.

“That should help a bit,” Solas says. “She needs to get out of that armor and into some blankets.”

Blackwall nods and starts walking, using the trail already broken back towards the camp. They turn the bend and recruits are already clearing a path of the faithful, all wanting to see the Herald’s return from death themselves. He brings her closer to his chest, suddenly protective, desperate to keep her safe from anything that might hurt her.

_Anything._

He’s led to a tent full of Chantry sisters holding torches for warmth and a pallet covered with furs and blankets. Adan waits outside as Cassandra and Vivienne stand inside the tent. Cassandra kneels, and Blackwall follows, placing Bethroot in the Seeker’s arms, letting his lips brush her brow as he does.

Cassandra immediately starts undressing her and Blackwall leaves the tent quickly, shutting the flaps of the tent tightly behind him, wanting to ensure his lady’s privacy.

He walks to the edge of camp, away from the cheering and praying, knowing if she lives, the Herald’s legend would grow even further. It isn’t right, what he’s doing, deceiving her like he does, but she wants a Warden for the Inquisition. And Blackwall will give her a Warden. That he can do.

But anything more… This fantasy has to end, the knowing looks and glances they shared need to stop. Bethroot deserved so much more than him.

The mountain air is light and crisp around him, but Blackwall feels a heaviness settle deep in his chest. His resolve must not waver. They consider him a Champion; he could watch his lady from afar and protect her from any dangers she faced.

And if that means protecting her from himself, so be it.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [theherocomplex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/theherocomplex/pseuds/theherocomplex) for her beta work!


End file.
